


Roads Go Ever On

by Weissnichtwo (LoudenSwain713)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: ??? sort of, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Remix, Episode s03e07: Son of Coma Guy, Fluff, Greg House Loves James Wilson, James Wilson Loves Greg House, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Missing Scene, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoudenSwain713/pseuds/Weissnichtwo
Summary: On the highway from Princeton to Atlantic City, House is a little too truthful. While helping his patient on what will probably be the last day of his life, he and Wilson deal with the consequences of his confession.ORVegetative-State-Guy asks House how he met the person he's in love with. House tells him he bailed them out of jail.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 127





	Roads Go Ever On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazyreader12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyreader12/gifts).



> Hi y'all!  
> So, it's just like me to get into a show eight years after it's ended and binge two and a half seasons in a week. This is my first House fic, so I hope I've gotten the characterization decent.
> 
> Okay so y'all I have to give a huge shoutout to crazyreader. She doesn't even know anything about House, but she still took the time to read this fic and give her very valuable feedback. Thanks mate :)

The logical part of House knows that coming out to his best friend while they are being driven across the state by an emotionally-detached patient is insane. Okay, it’s more than insane, but he’s never exactly been the poster boy for thought-out decisions.

“What did you make in your factory?” House asks, brain itching for the answer to this particular illness, riding high on the time constraint.

“Luxury boats. Have you ever been in love?”

“Wow. Going right for the closets with the embarrassing stuff. Good move. Yes.” His phrasing must be some sort of Freudian slip, but House has never claimed to be a psychologist. “Describe the boats.”

“35 to 65 foot hulls. Twin engines, parquet floors in the galleys, staterooms with queen beds. How’d you meet?”

Wilson’s lips are red around the Twizzlers he’s popping into his mouth, and House makes his eyes focus on the taillights of the pickup in front of them. “Bailed him out of jail.”

From the seat behind him, Wilson drops the Twizzler bag. Asparagus-Guy barely takes a second glance though, which is fortunate; the pickup is a little too close for comfort. Maybe Wilson’s right, maybe he should’ve let the other man drive. But a quick glance in the rearview mirror reveals that no, if Wilson were driving they’d be sitting in a flaming car wreck. He takes a breath and continues. “These boats. I assume you used mildew-resistant paint on the hulls?”

“Naturally. Jail?”

“He was cute,” he responds, flippant enough to keep the driver at a distance while truthful enough to stick to the game. Wilson makes a sort of choking sound. “You ever take your son to the factory?”

“Sure. He used to run all over the place, but it was perfectly safe. You ever love anyone else?”

House pauses just long enough to make sure that Wilson is, in fact, not in need of the Heimlich maneuver before he drops the next bomb. “I’ve never needed to. No more questions. ” Wilson drops his head against the back of his seat, exposing the long line of his throat. House tries not to stare, tries to remind himself that Wilson recently betrayed him and that there’s a reason he’s being so unnecessarily truthful. “I got my answer. While Dad’s in the office, son’s watching them spray-paint. And what kid wears a mask?” His eyes flick, again, to Wilson; the man hasn’t moved, but maybe the sticking to strict medical conversation will jar him out of it. “Mercury specifically targets the central nervous system.”

“Are you saying this was my fault?”

He reaches for his phone, flipping it open and dialing the office. “Mercury poisoning explains the seizures. The liver is like a big soup strainer. Soup runs through; chicken dumplings stay. For soup, read blood. For chicken dumplings-”

“I get, I get it. Mercury.”

“Sits more or less idle until your kid pours tequila shooters into his liver. When the liver goes, takes out the kidneys. Explains everything.”

“House, is that you?” Cameron calls, doe voice as high as ever.

“Yeah, it’s me. Foreman, draw blood. Test for mercury poisoning. Chase, start heavy metal chelation while we’re waiting for results.”

“Chase isn’t here. I’ll start the-”

“Where is he?” House asks, curiosity and not a little nervousness rolling in his shoulders.

“The lab,” Foreman responds, with enough hesitation for House to know he’s being lied to. It wouldn’t be the first time. Wilson, in the backseat, is still staring blankly at the roof of the car. House hangs up.

By the time they pull into Atlantic City, Wilson has resumed shoveling the remaining Twizzlers, the ones that didn’t fall on the floor, into his mouth. Something House has noticed over the years is that Wilson eats sugar when he’s stressed, and only sugar. He blames the oncologist for all the junk food sitting in his kitchen, and that’s the story that he’s sticking to.

“We have been up and down St. James like a Monopoly car. Giancarlo has left the building.”

Asparagus-Guy looks as if he’s lost all his water, wilting in the driver’s seat before bursting with enough angry energy to rival House when he’s worked up. Normally this would be where Wilson steps in, offering some sort of reassurance, but Wilson is not really acting very Wilson-like. He’s been silent for the last forty minutes, not a word from him, and House, despite having gone entire evenings hearing nothing at all from the other man, begins to feel twinges of guilt. Mostly annoyance though, because now House has to comfort the guy sitting next to him, and he’s not very good at that. “I’m sure there’s a reason it closed. Must not have been very tasty, anyway.”

From the way Wilson’s leg jerks in response to his words, the man is thinking, just a little, about kicking the back of his seat. House doesn’t let himself smile. One step closer to normal.

Asparagus-Guy bustles into the room immediately, going straight for the sofa to, presumably, turn on the TV, though the angle of the doorway limits House’s field of view somewhat. He moves to follow him, but he’s stopped by a firm grip around his upper arm. He sighs. Wilson. 

“Little busy here. Need to go make sure my patient’s not going to return to vegetation.” His tone is brusque, panic at the idiotic decision he made warring with his curiosity to get to the bottom of this week’s puzzle.

Wilson, ever the considerate one, releases his hold without a word, and House enters the room with a dying man. He does this almost everyday, this isn’t new, but this time he actually prefers Asparagus-Guy’s company to the looming conversation he’s going to have to have with Wilson eventually. 

He doesn’t see Wilson come in, just hears him close the door, and he’s actually quite proud of the way they anticipate each other’s movements so that neither of them are forced to make eye contact. As Wilson dials room service, claiming that part of the room, House crosses to his patient, keeping his back to the wall and his front to the rest of the room where he’s allowed to discreetly watch Wilson pacing across the carpet with that annoyed, stubborn look on his face. It seems more annoyed and stubborn than usual, but his focus is pulled away as his leg throbs in pain and he has to reach for the Vicodin in his pocket, Vicodin that Wilson lied to the cops about. No wonder the oncologist keeps snapping at him; House isn’t entirely sure he would do the same for Wilson if the opportunity presented itself. 

This, of course, is a lie, but House tries very hard not to think about that. “Game’s still on, Clarice.”

“I thought the answer was mercury poisoning. What other questions would you care about?”

Wilson, still on the call, squints his eyes. “If you each had one day to live, you’d look for one last meal. House would look for one last mystery to solve.” His words are cutting, no longer acquiescing, which was to be expected. Wilson may be considered an angel by most of the hospital staff, but he’s as human as they come, prone to exhaustion just like everyone else. There’s only so much he can take, and it looks like an unrequited confession of House’s love has made him reach his limit. No more mister nice guy.

But he directs his attention away from Wilson and the bitter taste in his mouth, most likely from the Vicodin, and back towards his patient. “Last ten years. How much awareness did you have?”

“I don’t know. I knew it wasn’t the next day. I-I knew that-” he loses his voice for a moment, and House leans forward in anticipation. “I recognized your voice. How often were you in my room?”

Wilson’s words are almost resigned as he interrupts, leaning against the wall in a perfect picture of everything House can’t have. Almost resigned, but still laced with heat. “No. You’re wasting a question. I have a better one. Why now?”

Asparagus-Guy clearly doesn’t understand, but House ducks his head in something approaching shame. Or maybe it’s just cowardice. Wilson only gives him a moment to contemplate an answer before he barrels right on through. “You stole my pad, God knows why. Except, I know! You wanted to see how far you could push me before I left. Because all relationships are conditional, right? So you wanted to stretch me until I broke, just so you could say you were right, that our friendship is conditional, that I’ll leave. And it won’t be your fault because it’s just a law of the universe, huh? So…so is _this_ just another way of that? Kicking me away because you’re afraid I’ll get too close, afraid of what it will mean? Well, guess what, House! I’m not leaving! Shove me away all you want, and I’ll still be here because I-”

The phone rings. Not the corded one attached to the wall but the cell phone hooked to his pocked. House blinks. He blinks again. Wilson’s hands are clenched, his legs tense like he’s preparing to run. The phone is still ringing, and his hands tremble when he flips it open, not even bothering with a sarcastic greeting and jumping straight to gruff irritation. “What?”

It’s Foreman, and House would never admit it but the steady timbre of his voice is the uncomplicated familiarity he needs right now. “Patient’s BP just dropped like a stone.”

“Do an echo.” The words are out before he can even consider why, his mind too fuzzy with the words Wilson wasn’t able to say. A second later, thought kicks in again. “Mercury isn’t likely to damage-”

“It didn’t. Mercury test was negative.”

Unease wells in his gut, nothing to do with Wilson’s interrupted rant. “Do an echo.” He drops the phone back into his pocket and himself back into the chair. Wilson is still standing, flushed, behind the sofa, no longer lounging against the wall. House can’t bring himself to look at him, so he looks at his patient’s knee. “I was wrong. Your son’s still dying. I need to go over every relative you ever had, again. This time, forget their diseases. Just tell me how they died. We don’t have time to take turns.” The beginnings of urgency rush through his veins, along with the creeping horror that he’s messed up again. “Gimme the answers and you get a big one at the end. You can go for whatever you want. Destroy my privacy, my dignity.” He doesn’t mean to look at Wilson as his tirade ends, but the man seems to be a magnet to his gaze. The quick image of his friend leaning against the wall though, having retreated with his hands in pockets, eyes closed, and a screen of disappointment on his face, is too painful to stare at for long. Wilson looks too close to giving up.

They break their unspoken agreement for no eye contact for just a moment, and it’s an unwise decision. Of course, they’re doctors first, stuck in a hotel room with a patient likely to go comatose soon, and for a moment, they forget about the emotions warring between them. In that moment, where they lock gazes with the intention to get on the same page, medicine quickly goes out the window. House swallows, unable to look away from the desperate, angry expression bleeding from Wilson’s eyes, and Wilson must find something in his own gaze because the man seems unwilling to break eye contact. It’s only the employee speaking into the phone by Wilson’s ear that jars them out of it, and House suddenly really, really wants to go down to the casino. Or maybe up to the roof to get some air. Instead, he stays in the room and pretends not to feel Wilson’s eyes on his back.

House stares at Asparagus-Guy, sick with the knowledge that he’s given this man power over him. Not a lot of power, but he’s blundered into letting him ruin his friendship with Wilson so. To say that House isn’t crawling with nerves would be very, very false.

“Why did you become a doctor?”

House does what he always does when he’s relieved: he talks. “That’s the big question? I give you complete license to humiliate me, and that’s the best you can do?” He’s not expecting a response, is already opening his mouth to continue his bravado, but he’s stopped before he can get very far.

“I figure I’ve already tested you two boys enough tonight,” Asparagus-Guy says, suddenly developing a bone that could be called emotional. Maybe his tibia.

House drops his head, exhales, waggles his finger, and pushes a smile on his face that’s too plastic for the other man to notice. Wilson, however, pulls a face that House can only imagine means that he’s discomfited by the strange twisting of his lips. “Touche. Let’s discuss the wonder of the human body.” But his words come out more weary than flippant; he never thought he’d see the day where he tired of a game. There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

But still, Asparagus-Guy is too clever, and House is reminded in a flash that his son, the dark-haired kid lying pale back at Princeton-Plainsboro, the patient he’s trying to save, looks a little bit like Wilson. “No, no, no. You’re a curious guy. You like to figure things out. Why not go into research? Why work with people when you…obviously hate people?”

He can feel Wilson’s gaze on him, serious and searching, and he scrambles for a deflection like he usually scrambles for Vicodin. “Oedipal fixation. I was seeking my mother’s love, and she thought that Ben Casey was just the dreamiest-” Wilson rolls his eyes, and House feels both victory and disappointment at his success.

But, like most things this evening, victory soon backfires on him. The deflection doesn’t work: “Okay fine. You don’t think you’ll need any more answers from me? Give me a hard time.”

House sends one last glance to Wilson, not quite making it to his eyes but trying valiantly, ending up somewhere just below his collar. Even when they’re fighting he seems to gravitate to the other doctor for relief. 

“When I was 14, my father was stationed in Japan. I went rock-climbing with this kid from school and he fell, he got injured, and I had to bring him to the hospital. We came in through the wrong entrance and passed this guy in the hall. It was a janitor. My friend came down with an infection and the doctors didn’t know what to do. So they brought in...the janitor. He was a doctor. And a Buraku. One of Japan’s untouchables. His ancestors had been slaughterers, gravediggers. And this guy, he knew he wasn’t accepted by the staff. Didn’t even try. He didn’t dress well. He didn’t pretend to be one of them. The people that ran that place, they didn’t think that he had anything they wanted. Except when they needed him. Because he was right. Which meant that nothing else mattered. And they had to listen to him.” He gets it all out in one go, as if compressing the time he takes to say it will do the same to the meaning. 

On the opposite wall, Wilson looks at him with a very tender expression, so open it makes House’s eyes sting and forces him to keep Wilson out of even his peripheral vision. He’s never told this one to Wilson before, keeping it for a rainy day when Wilson needed proof that he trusted him. And here he is, just having told it to a total stranger. House leans his head gently against the cane and uses it as an excuse to avoid taking the few steps to Wilson’s side.

For the first time in several hours, he speaks directly to Wilson. “Get out,” he says, already resigned to the inevitable.

But the younger man surprises him, his hands on his hips in that uniquely Wilson stance that is so familiar. Confusion and then, at the last minute, numb horror, plays across his face. “No.”

House looks up at him, fondness softening his face for a moment before he regains control. “You’ve lied to the cops enough for me.” And then, like the addict he is, he slips again. “Maybe I don’t want to push this till it breaks.”

There’s a hundred different ways Wilson’s expression could be interpreted, but House doesn’t have the energy to analyze even one of them. What he knows though, is that Wilson’s touch on his shoulder as he leaves the room is warm and steadying and just what he needs to get through the next few minutes.

He doesn’t even know exactly what he’ll say until he’s said it, dread hanging heavy from his bones. “Pills are the simplest. Hanging has less chance of damaging the heart.”

“I’m okay with pain.”

“Strangulation is better than breaking your neck,” he continues, knowing what he’s offering without quite believing that he is. “Which means this’ll be slow.”

Something in Asparagus-Guy’s eyes fractures off, ragged enough that House has to look away or risk getting cut. “I wouldn’t get to see him even if we got in the car right now and broke the speed limit driving back, would I?”

“No.”

“Tell him...I don’t know what to tell him.” Silence. Breath. House is numb. “I think it’s my turn to ask a question, isn’t it?”

“Don’t think so. Cause you just asked me that thing about the speed limit.” A pause. “What do you want to know?”

“If you could hear one thing from your father, what would it be?”

“It wouldn’t help you.”

“Try me.”

“I’d want him to say…’You were right. You did the right thing.’”

“Yeah. It doesn’t help.”

House laughs at the man’s words, a soft chuckle, because if he doesn’t he thinks he’ll start to cry.

When he exits the room, slumping against the hall in defeat, Wilson steps close to him. Too close, and House turns his face away, scared to face the disappointment surely present on the other’s face. But if Wilson is disappointed, he lets none of that seep through into his tone as he bends to lift House’s cane from the floor. “I’ll be back,” he says, soft enough that House has to strain to pick up his meaning.

The minutes tick by, no sound anywhere at all except for the pounding in his head. He’d left his Vicodin in the room, an error prompted by the instinctual urge to flee the room and the crime as fast as possible.

The word appears from nowhere, the man absent one moment and present the next. “Alibi,” Wilson says, handing House’s cane back to him.

A thank-you is stuck in his throat, lodged where it won’t come out. He thinks he might have to scream to release it, thinks that’s better than nothing. But instead his air is blocked and he has no choice but to stick to the old ways. “I figured,” he says, hating the feel of it on his tongue. 

When, moments later, a thud comes from inside the room, Wilson is already withdrawing his phone and dialing for an ambulance.

  
On the ride back to Princeton, Wilson keeps the music on: soft and classical, a sort of white noise that almost succeeds in driving out the thoughts from his head. Almost, until Wilson breaks the silence. “You’ve never told me that story before. About why you wanted to be a doctor.”

House exhales, not quite hissing through his teeth. “Does it matter?”

“Why you became a doctor or why you’ve never told me till now?”

House snorts. “I don’t know. Neither. Both.”

“Well, one of those you can answer,” Wilson shoots back, predictable as always. Well, almost always. And then he’ll concede in five...four...three...two… “Why you haven’t told me till now.”

Yes. Still got it.

House rolls his head to face Wilson, grinning. “Didn’t want to scare you away. Make you think I’m too conceited.” But then his smile drops, and he doesn’t quite know what he found funny in the first place.

“You won’t scare me away,” is all Wilson says, his eyes trained on the road but his hand leaving the steering wheel to extend across the console between them. House huffs but takes it anyway, the touch grounding yet heady. With another breath, he lifts their intertwined hands to his lips and kisses Wilson’s knuckles. He can hear the quiet gasp clearly over the music. Wilson squeezes back.

The road stretches out in front of them and for a moment, just a moment, House is at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this followed by more canon divergence? Will House actually help Wilson and realize that he needs to be a bit less self-centered? Will this in turn dissuade Wilson from going to Tritter? I dunno; maybe, maybe not. (Probably not, but, you know. Wishful thinking.)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Leave a comment if you wish!


End file.
